


deux meurtres et un bébé

by GryfoTheGreat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Classical Music, F/M, France (Country), Paris (City), Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:35:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GryfoTheGreat/pseuds/GryfoTheGreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Hmmm. Adlock AU, something French, John and Mary being the adorable couple they are. Classical music(not violin!). Valentines. :3<br/>Letting a consulting detective, a former dominatrix and an innocent baby run free in the City of Love probably wasn’t the best idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	deux meurtres et un bébé

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TpLoz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TpLoz/gifts).



> Written for TpLoz on Tumblr.  
> THIS WAS THE BEST PROMPT EVER. I’m late, but eeh. Sherlock is lots of fun to write because I get to use all my words and Irene is just plain outrageous. And yes, I named John and Mary’s baby Charlotte. Geddit? Also; [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPAiH9XhTHc) is the song Irene and Sherlock perform. Yes, it has violins, but Sherlock isn’t the one playing so technically I win!

Sherlock isn't entirely sure why he's here, standing in the middle of the Champs de Elysée with a baby that's not his. As a general rule he tries to avoid the French and all things associated with them, which would logically rule out Paris, yet logic rarely applies when it comes to John; this is one of those times.

At the very least, little Charlotte is not crying. As with the French he tries his level best to avoid babies, but again John is involved; therefore, Charlie is an exception. John and Mary's... spawn is generally very quiet around him, whereas her favourite pastime is puking on John. Baby vomit is surprisingly hard to get out of jumpers. Sherlock has always mistrusted babies, and this one's effect on a once-hardened covert operative was proof that his theory of babies being evil was entirely correct. Mary was, according to Mrs. Hudson, suffering from what was colloquially termed as 'baby-brain,' and as such had turned into a frighteningly efficient zombie.

In a probably misguided attempt to alleviate this post-natal stress, Sherlock offered to bankroll a St. Valentine’s Day trip to the City of Love for the two new parents; Mary accepted gratefully, on the sole condition that Sherlock mind Charlotte. “She is named after you, and you're her grandfather. Wait, no, that was wrong. Lordfather. Whatever,” Mary said, ignoring John's spluttering priests. Sherlock agreed somewhat reluctantly, waved goodbye to Mary and John at Heathrow, and promptly hopped on the next plane to Charles de Gaulle. 

So here he is, smack-dab in the centre of the Frenchest street on earth with a child.

He'd been in worse circumstances.

He pushes the buggy against the flow of the pedestrians. Luckily Paris is not half as rainy or windy as London is at the present moment, but he is glad of his coat.

Sherlock notices a commotion further up the street. A cluster of gendarmes are pursuing a woman, waving their batons and yelling in French. He moves out of the way; ordinarily, he would plunge into the action, but he has the baby to think about.

Unfortunately, his efforts seem to be in vain; the woman's eyes alight upon him, and she adjusts her high-heeled course towards him. He observes her; after a final analysis of her bust-waist-hip ratio, he concludes that he has been erroneous in referring to her as a simple noun. She is a proper noun. She is the Woman.

When she reaches him she begins talking to him in Urdu; unconsciously, he replies in the same tongue. “Fancy seeing you here!” Her grin is as toothy as ever, lipstick more orange than red. “Mind helping an old friend out? Pick up the baby.”

He complies, lifting Charlotte out of the buggy with a grunt. “America didn't work out, I assume.” She reaches her hands out for Charlie. “She's heavier than she looks.”

Irene takes Charlie into her arms carefully, nestling the baby on her hip and bouncing her as she replies. “Just one country is much too small for me. I need the world. She is quite hefty, isn't she?”

“Don't tell John that,” Sherlock sighs, glancing at the policemen, held back by the language barrier. They know French, some English, and a little German, but they've probably never heard anything from further east than Poland. Irene helps them out; grimacing at Charlie, she turns to one gendarme, indicates the baby and says “Mange!” She mimes putting a spoon into Charlie's mouth, and the gendarmes nod with comprehension. Their looks of smug understanding soon turn into pure dismay when Irene begins to take her top off; Sherlock swears that he sees a few of their moustaches droop.

“Breast-feed!” Irene trills, continuing to lift the hem of her Breton top up as the gendarmes shake their hands helplessly and attempt to stop her.

“Sir!” One directs his attention to Sherlock. “No here! Take wife away!”

“She's not my...” Seeing the glare Irene throws him, Sherlock agrees, taking the baby and grabbing Irene by the arm to drag her away. “Pardonnez-moi!” he yells at them, not caring whether he's right or not. “Merci! Bonjour! Voulez-vous!”

Irene finally stops him after a solid half-hour of running on a bridge across the Seine River, and possibly the most inconvenient bridge at that. It is swamped with couples young and old, all clipping padlocks onto the bridge's railings. Sherlock doesn't see the point; they're not securing the bridge, and with the numbers of padlocks already on it, it is more then likely going to fall into the Seine.

“Thanks for that,” Irene says, having rubbed her garish lipstick away with the scarf once tied around her neck; she shoves the dirty garment into her bag. “I was in a bit of a sticky spot there.”

“Care to tell me exactly what kind of spot that was?” He watches a drunk-looking couple secure a phallus-shaped padlock onto the bridge. Crude, but accurate.

“Monsieur Prime Minster's third mistress,” she grins.

“Unsurprising. You stink of Chanel.” He screws up his nose.

“As charming as ever, I see.” She steps forward to lean against the railing. “These padlocks are interesting aren't they?”

“What exactly are they supposed to signify?” He joins her, pulling Charlotte back when she attempts to grab the river.

“Couples come to put a lock on the bridge together to signify their commitment to each other. If it doesn't work out, you come back to break it and throw it into the river. I suppose today is a popular day for it.” She begins to fiddle with one, sliding a pin out of her hair to jimmy the lock open. “Should we try putting one on?”

“I doubt that any lock could keep either of us down,” he tells her.

She pauses, holding the freed lock aloft, to look at him. It is in the shape of a heart, but not a love heart; a real heart, complete with arteries and valves. “I suppose you're right,” she admits, and makes as if to throw the padlock into the river, but her arm freezes. He gazes at her curiously as she sighs, shakes her head, and puts the lock back on where it was. _Sentiment_ , he thinks, but he does not think it as acridly as before.

“Come on.” He offers his arm to her. “It's too exposed here.”

Irene takes his arm with a grin and they leave, Charlie swatting at passing locks as they push her along, leaving the bridge to reach the other side

–

Walking along the Seine towards the Louvre by the most convoluted route possible, Sherlock has to stop and wait for Irene no less than four times; the first outside a boutique, the second outside a chemist's, the third outside a toilet, and the fourth outside a clothes bank. Charlie has long fallen asleep when she emerges, rid of tacky blond wig and pants and heavy make-up. Her hair is black again, pinned up loosely, and she wears a grey dress threaded with silver. Her boots are far too impractical to run in, but he supposes that's what makes her the Woman.

“Are you finally ready?” He pretends to check his watch.

“Never rush a woman's toilette. Where are we going?” She takes the buggy from him.

“The Louvre. John and Mary should be finishing up about now.” Hopefully, unless John had had another run-in with a museum guard. The Tate had already banned him in the course of an old case.

“Ooh, the love-birds! Mary seems to be quite a nice lady, except for the fact that I can't find a single thing out about her past.” She tips her head to the side. “And I'm glad John shaved the moustache. It was terribly ageing.” She shudders.

“We can agree on that,” he mutters, as they cross onto another bridge.

“But what exactly are you doing here? Sherlock Holmes in Paris? I almost didn't believe it, until I caught you analysing me.”

“John and Mary are on a romantic city-break, and I decided to follow in case they got kidnapped. You know Moriarty. Very much a believer in hostages, even if he prefers them dead.” Sherlock refuses to think about Moriarty; the man has consumed much of his thirties, and Sherlock has resolved to leave him out of his mind for the duration of this Parisian holiday.

“Nasty little man. I was very glad when he died, but he seems to have followed in our footsteps and come back to life.”

“You were always a trendsetter. Have you heard anything about him?”

She pauses in her steps, a strange expression coming over her face. “No. The last time I got involved with him, I lost everything, and almost lost my head. I am determined to never cross his path again if at all possible.”

“So I have to deal with him?” He can't help the bitterness that enters his voice.

“You're the only one good enough to handle him. Not me, not Mycroft. You.” He glances at her face, but from the little he can glean from her countenance, she is sincere. She gives him a devious smile. “But If you do find him, shoot him the balls for me.”

“Shh!” He covers Charlie's ears with his hands. “Not around the baby!”

Irene bursts out laughing, catching the attention of everyone on the bridge.

“You odd woman...” He smiles back at her anyway.

When she has recovered enough to walk on again, she begins yet again to talk. “But, Sherlock... I always knew the rumours were true.

“What rumours?” Her words put him on edge. Rumours are good, but not when they're directed at him.

“Shag-A-Lot Holmes?” He jerks his head at the baby, and she mouths 'sorry!' “I bumped into her, actually, on my way out of the hospital room. Lovely woman.”

“I knew that rose was from you. Too many thorns on it to be from anyone else.” He rubs his hands together gleefully, glad that his deduction was correct. They step onto the other side of the Seine; the Louvre should be just ahead.

“You gave me quite a fright, you know.” Her voice is quiet. “You looked very... dead.”

“I was shot, you know.” There is a strange flare of guilt in his mind, and it will not go out no matter how hard he tries to quash it. _Sentiment,_ his conscience chatters in Mycroft's voice. “Almost dying doesn't generally leave one looking the picture of health.”

“Don't do it again.”

“I can't promise anything,” he begins, but when he sees the look on her face he adds “But I'll try.”

She smiles at him, this one genuine,and turns her gaze forward. “Ah! We're here.” She indicates the glass pyramid looming ahead. “I don't understand why people come to this place. At least thirty-four percent of the pieces are forged, and the paining underneath the Mona Lisa is much better.”

“Thirty-five, actually, though I agree with you on the Mona Lisa. There they are.” John and Mary look the very picture of a happy couple, strolling along hand in hand. He doubts they'll be smiling when they see him. Sure enough, when John spots him, he smile slides off his face. Mary, worried, looks at him, and then follows his gaze to Sherlock... and then to Irene. Mary staggers back a step.

Irene grinds to a halt. “Is that Mary?”

“Yes. Why?” He glances at her curiously; Irene's mouth has dropped open.

“From what I understood, he married a nurse, not an assassin!”

“Former assassin,” he corrects, lengthening his stride. “Hurry up, will you?”

As he approaches them, Mary points her finger at Irene. “You're supposed to be dead!”

“That was what I was going to say!” The vein in John's temple looks about to pop.

“Everybody's coming back from the dead nowadays. I thought I'd get in on the fun. You really like the dangerous ones, don't you, John? She shot me once, you know... except it wasn't me.” Irene gives him a winning smile as she lifts Charlie up and practically shoves the baby into her father's arms. “She's probably hungry. I tried to feed her earlier, but we got interrupted.”

John glares at Sherlock. “You owe me an explanation.”

“Later,” Sherlock says, waving his had dismissively. “First, I owe you lunch.” He hands Mary an envelope. “They should have a crèche service for Charlie. Do try the beef entrecôte. Go on!” He pushes the buggy at them (it crashes into a pillar) and turns to leave, Irene scrambling after him.

“No lunch for me?” she pouts, once she is yet again at his side.

“I'm not hungry,” he counters, “and neither are you.”

She falls silent. “You're right,” she concedes, “but there's more than one way to have fun.”

“I look forward to it.”

–

Sherlock is loath to admit this, but after an hour or two of running around the city bantering with Irene, Paris has grown on him. Maybe it is the buttery light, or the graceful curves of the dove-grey buildings, but it is almost as beautiful as London, that city of jagged glass towers and faded red brick. But London is his home, and this place is not; perhaps this is why he is tolerating Irene. In this strange dream of a city, she fits right in. He does not follow her, nor does she follow him; they simply wander, from wrought-iron bench to upright tree to green-tinged statue.

They end up on the theÎle de la Cité, plotting a course form monument to monument; Irene is refused entry into the Saint Chapelle, but ids more than happy to dramatically re-enact Marie Antoinette's last moments in front of the Conciergerie.

“She didn't die here,” he reminds her, after they are escorted off the promises.

“There is more than one kind of death, Sherlock. Perhaps she wasn't guillotined here, but it was here that her soul died.” She trots off again, looking back over her shoulder to see if he'll pursue her; he does.

The Notre-Dame is their next stop. The bells ring as they approach, and organ music if faintly audible.

“Let's not go inside,” Irene decides. “Far better to admire it without knowing what's in there.”

Sherlock does not reply, admiring the western façade.

\--

It is later, after a stroll around the Tuileries Gardens and a hasty lunch of galettes, that they happen upon the street orchestra. 

The sign near them says Salle Pleyel; presumably this is some marketing stunts. Several circle of musicians. Taking up almost am entire plaza, sit around a conductor's podium, playing along to what the conductor instructs. Right now there is a small boy conduction, brown eyes shining and black hair waving jubilantly as he shakes the baton wildly. It is strange; the piece (Erbarme dich, if he remembers; perhaps not the most romantic, but Sherlock will always happily accept Bach) calls for vocal accompaniment, more accurately a contralto, yet there is none.

Irene elbows him. “I dare you.”

“I are you back.” The child is lifted off the podium by proud parents, and Sherlock steps up, leaving Irene behind.

He picks up the baton, and grimaces; it is filthy. As he cleans it against his coat he directs the musicians to get ready. Thy do so happily; perhaps they recognise that this is someone who knows what he's doing.

He begins, mentally praising the violinists; they are rather good. He counts down the seconds to the beginning of the aria. Will she? Won't she?

After a minute, she does; making her way through the circle, she halts in front of podium, and opens her mouth.

The following six minutes contain some of the best music Sherlock has ever witnessed. The violins surge along with Irene's pitches. The crowd is enraptured; nobody utters a single word, and every passer-by is absorbed into the audience to watch. Perhaps some recognise him as that crazy detective with the hat, but more stay for the sheer beauty of Irene's voice.

When the last violin quivers into silence, the crowd remains stationary for a few seconds, and bfore bursting into clamorous applause. Sherlock and Irene bow, as do the musicians. Several try to talk to Sherlock and Irene, but thy brush the compliments off graciously.

Taking Sherlock's arm as they exit the plaza, Irene proclaims; “Well, that was fun. I haven't sang in quite a while.”

“You were very good.” The music starts up again; this time Rachmaninoff. Maybe the third part, Romance, of Suite No. 2; much more fitting for the day that is in it.

–

The day has finally come to an end; the air is beginning to bite, and the sun is completing it's descent. They stand in front of the entrance to the catacombs; how accurate, he thinks. She did always have a flair for the dramatic.

“That was very enjoyable. I forgot how fun you were, Sherlock.” The dimming light makes her look older, reminding him of the years that have separated them.

“Perhaps I should start organising fun-filled city-breaks,” he replies drily.

She laughs, the sound harsh. The silence is thick, and Sherlock curses under his breath. He has never been any use with goodbyes.

There is something strange in Irene's eyes, a burn behind the ice blue. She elans forward, quick as a snake, and, hand at his jaw, presses a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“No,” she says, voice quiet, “I regret nothing.”

And with that she runs into the darkness, the clicking of her boots slowly fading into nothing.

Sherlock shakes his head, and draws his coat tighter round him; strangely, he feels much colder. The day is almost over, and with it all its events. He has bigger things to focus on than the impossible Woman.

–

(A week or so later, Mrs. Hudson complains to John about not being allowed to throw away the wilting rose in Sherlock's room. John tells her to leave it. Sentiment is such a rare thing in Sherlock' part, and he needs it now more than ever.)


End file.
